


Editorial

by talboys



Series: Peter Wimsey in Present Day [2]
Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Journalism, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, Theatre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-14 08:25:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1259575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talboys/pseuds/talboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been three years since Lord Peter Wimsey met Sherlock Holmes. Since then Peter has done a touch of amateur sleuthing, Mycroft has put him out to pasture, Bunter has been ever-present, Sherlock has died and come back to life, and Harriet Vane has remained flirtatiously (he hoped) elusive.  </p><p>Lord Peter is bored. </p><p>Why not investigate the tardiness of his morning paper?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

110A Piccadilly was peaceful in the early mornings. Peter Wimsey had recently taken a fondness for rising early, savoring his breakfast and paper in front of a fire (the size of which was dictated by the external temperature), and then beginning his day. His days were varied and rather unpredictable. Since returning on an as-needed basis three years ago to Mycroft's employ after a severe bout with PTSD, he'd largely done calm diplomatic work around London. He had grudgingly accepted this partial retirement from the MI6 and had, inspired by Mycroft's brother, Dr. John Watson, and his own partner, Bunter, taken up small-time sleuthing in his spare time. His mind needed to stay active to avoid slipping back into the dark depression that John and Sherlock had found him in several years before.

He refused to compare himself to Sherlock's rather flourishing detective business (and quite frankly, he'd been unable and unwilling to fill the void left by Sherlock upon his "death" two years previously), but he did favors for friends when they needed discretion: mainly matters of misplaced items and errant husbands or wives.

Through Sherlock, he'd met DI Charles Parker, who had been a former mentor to Sherlock's pet DI, Greg Lestrade. Whenever Peter felt the restlessness of retirement and lack of petty cases in his life, he'd ring up Parker who was always happy to let him and Bunter tag along on whatever he was working on. The first case they had done with Parker had been the biggest: the Vane poisoning case. Even though he'd completely undermined poor Parker's case against Harriet Vane, he _had_ saved her from a false conviction. Other than some of his more secret diplomatic missions abroad, Peter was proudest of the moment that he’d found the real murderer and helped Harriet clear her name. Rather foolishly, he'd also become completely enamored with her, though she was naturally hesitant about embarking on anything other than a politely distant friendship. Nevertheless, once a month, he'd ask her to dinner, just so that she could have the satisfaction of turning him down and maintaining the status quo. One day, when she was ready, perhaps she'd accept… 

This particular morning, Peter was beginning to feel the itching restlessness of nothing to do. Mycroft had refused to send him to Israel (even though he could have been terrifically useful there) and he was stuck cooling his increasingly warm heels in London. DI Parker was on a well-deserved holiday to Spain (though, frankly, Peter was having a hard time imagining him on a beach) and had farmed out all of his active cases to his infuriatingly competent subordinates. Peter glared at the small, cheerful fire burning in the grate and drummed his fingers on the well-padded arm of his chair. 

"Bunter?" Peter called into the hallway, "Has the paper arrived yet?"

"Not since you last asked ten minutes ago," Bunter responded from near the front door, where he stood watch for the tardy newspaper. 

"Blasted thing!" Peter fumed, "That's the third time in two weeks that it's not arrived by 6:30. Aren't we supposed to be in a world of instantaneous news and constant information?" 

"Instant, yes. Punctual, no," Bunter responded patiently from the other side of the door. "Besides, if it is the news you want, may I recommend the internet? Your laptop is on the table next to you and you do possess a virtual subscription to the _Times_. I believe it is under your toast." 

"Well…so it is," Peter said, abashed. With a sigh of deep regret, he removed his computer from under the china plate, opened it and brought the website to life. He scrolled through it distractedly, opening a story, reading half of it, and then clicking back to the homepage. 

He repeated this process several times before calling out rather peevishly, "You know, Bunter, if there is one thing that the internet has not improved, it is the sensation of holding a newspaper in my hands as I eat my breakfast. There is just  _something_  about physically turning a page and sprinkling it with toast crumbs. Heaven forbid that I accidentally dribble tea on the laptop!"

There was no response from Bunter in the hallway. 

"Besides," Peter continued thoughtfully. "One can't rattle a virtual paper in annoyance at unruly passengers on the Tube or at excessively noisy cafe patrons. I am growing old, Bunter, and this lack of physical paper is encroaching upon my descent into the cantankerous - yet hopefully lovable - old codger that is my fate in life."

Bunter remained silent, but smiled fondly as he continued to stare through the peephole in the door for the errant newspaper. 

Peter continued talking, verbalizing his train of thought: “I have half a mind to complain about this appalling tardiness. I do know the editor-in-chief – we were at Balliol together, though he was a year below me. He used to get up frightfully early and jog, I remember, though I _think_ it was more for the pleasure of the view; he always managed to run along the Isis while the boating club was out for their morning row. Somehow he thought he was discreet. It’s still not here, is it?” Peter directed this last line to Bunter.

“I’m afraid not.”

“That’s it! I _will_ complain. I know I’ve got a number for him somewhere.”

Peter frowned as he opened and scrolled through various encrypted databases in his computer.  

“You know,” Bunter said. “It could very well be that there are no problems with the delivery, but that someone instead is stealing your paper.”

“Well, if it is, then they are doing it both very badly and very inconsistently. Although I _have_ always harbored that suspicion myself about Mrs. Willis next door. Perhaps she is stealing my papers to line that horrid singing canary’s cage.”

Peter continued to search various documents, scowling slightly as the contact information remained elusive.

“No, Bunter,” Peter said after some thought. “Much as I would like to blame Mrs. Willis and her canary, the lack of coherent pattern in tardiness suggests that it is an intermittent problem with the newspaper delivery itself. Which is why I will lodge an official complaint with…aha! Found him!”

“The editor-in-chief?” Bunter abandoned his post at the door to look in on Peter.

“Indeed, yes! I _knew_ I had him somewhere in here…I say, Bunter, hang on. Was that the distinctive thump of a newspaper hitting the steps I just heard?”

“I believe it was. Just a moment.” A spasm of irritation flashed across Bunter’s face at the realization that the paper had arrived the moment in which he had looked away.

“Watched pots, I’m afraid,” Peter said sympathetically.

Bunter nodded, stepped outside to retrieve the paper and brought it to the eagerly awaiting hands of Peter Wimsey.

“Oh, at last, the feel of fresh newsprint on my fingers. Thank you, Bunter, for the ever watchful eye.”

“Will you still be calling to complain?”

“Oh…yes, why not? I have nothing better to do today; let us tackle the reform of newspaper delivery! Is my mobile around by the way?”

“I believe that you left it charging on the desk.” Bunter retrieved the stray mobile and handed it to Peter.

“I never would be able to function without you. Now then: John Braithwaite Thomas.” Peter tapped out the number and placed the phone to his ear.

The phone rang several times before it was picked up on the other end. “Hello? Tommy? Wimsey here! Yes, good, good and all that. Yourself?...Oh, splendid. Actually, I was calling about your paper. Seems to me like you’ve got a bit of a problem with it…sorry? How did I know? Well, I read the damn thing, don’t I?...What do you mean ‘is it really that apparent’? I say, Tommy, what _is_ the matter?”

Peter cast a worried glance at Bunter, who promptly took Peter’s computer from his lap and sat down with it, prepared to take notes.

“Your managing editor? Drugs you think? Dear me, that’s not very good at all…No, no I’d be happy to look into it a bit for you before you do it officially. Just don’t say a word about me to anyone and give me some time to think…Right, yes, I’ll get back to you soon.”

Peter hung up and rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

“Bunter, we have a case! Better than the Case of the Tardy Newspaper, I reckon. Tommy thinks that one of his managing editors has gotten into drugs – he’s letting questionable content through. Isn’t that marvelous? Somehow I’ve got to work my way into the newspaper to figure out what’s going on before Tommy starts the headache of an actual investigation. What do you think?”

“If you don’t mind my saying so,” Bunter began carefully. “I think you might want to do this alone.”

“What?” Peter exclaimed, shocked. “After all we’ve been though, you’re jumping ship? This isn’t about the paper, is it?”

“No, not at all,” Bunter said hastily. “I just thought it might be best to keep me on the outside in case more subtle investigation work needs to be done later on with regards to the drugs.”

“For heaven’s sake,” Peter breathed, deeply relieved, and relaxed back into his chair. “Don’t scare me like that. My nerves aren’t what they once were. But yes, excellent thinking. Much easier to integrate one man rather than two, here, anyway.”

Bunter nodded in agreement.

“So, what do you think? Shall I try my hand at photography? Fellow editor? Foreign correspondent? Oh, Mycroft might not like that – too much of a chance that I’d actually publish state secrets. Not that any of the readers would actually notice, of course.”

Bunter narrowed his eyes, sizing Peter up from head to toe.

“A theater critic,” he eventually pronounced.

“Have you gone mad?”

Bunter continued patiently, undaunted: “Recently returned from an extended assignment in the New York theater circle due to missing all of the old comforts of home.”

“Actually,” Peter mused. “That’s a capital idea. Gives me seniority without anyone knowing who I am and the right to be deliciously prying into everyone’s affairs when I invite them to use my additional ticket for the theater…”

Peter’s too-pale eyes became slightly unfocused and far away as he thought through the possibilities of assuming the role.

“Bunter,” he concluded definitively. “That is simply brilliant.”


	2. Chapter 2

Several hours later, after Peter had refined his thoughts and drafted the demands he would make of the paper, he hung up from the particularly dull telephone call of settling all of his arrangements. The editor in chief had sounded miserably relieved that the quiet investigation was going to begin, which hadn't particularly cheered Peter. Resignation wasn't an emotion that sat well with him. 

"Well, Bunter," Peter sighed, after accepting the rather weary gratitude from Tommy. "I've got the job; I'll start next week."

"Congratulations," Bunter said. "Though, is it actually you who has been hired?"

"Ah, no, I stand corrected: a Mr. Paul D. Bredon has just been hired to temporarily fill the vacant post of theater critic on the staff."

"What has been done with the previous man?"

 "Poison, I suspect." Peter's eyes twinkled in mischief. "No, only joking. Apparently, the real theater critic was more than thrilled to take a sabbatical in New York in order to write some lovely, long feature pieces on British actors currently appearing on Broadway. Hopefully this won't take much longer than a few weeks. This should be a good lark." Peter stood up from his chair and stretched his back slowly and indulgently. 

"I don't think I've properly gone into an office to work in twenty years," Peter said around a yawn as he rolled his neck slowly. "Just think: I'll have my own desk and everything. I do hope they make me a name tag; I should have asked."

He straightened and turned to Bunter. A realization occurred to him suddenly and pure horror descended upon his face:

"Good heavens, what am I going to wear?" 

Peter dashed upstairs, with Bunter following quickly behind, with the sudden awareness that his new character might require costumes that he did not possess.

"No, I mean it, Bunter,” Peter called out despairingly, “What does a homesick theater critic, recently returned from an extended stay in New York, wear?" 

As Peter fussed rather aimlessly through several of his bureau drawers, Bunter turned calmly to Lord Peter's extensive wardrobe and eyed it judiciously. "Black," he finally pronounced.

"Not tweeds?" Peter asked, curiously, holding two pairs of nearly identical dark socks next to each other for comparison. "You know, as a representation of my utter homesickness and fondness for all things British that drew me back to the motherland? You really think I should go for black?"

"New York," Bunter explained. 

Peter looked back at the socks in his hand. "Fair enough," he shrugged.  

"You'll want to be urbane, stylish, and well-tailored without being too flashy - that is what the actors are for. The primary base should be black. We'll need to spend some time this week buying a few necessary pieces to add the right touch of pomp." 

Peter raised his eyebrows in surprise. 

"It's only a suggestion," Bunter amended.

"No, no," Peter replied hastily. "You're right. You're absolutely right. I still don’t know how you managed to learn about fashion while serving in the army, but I appreciate it more that I can articulate. Shopping we shall go."

\--

“I’m not sure I like it,” Peter said to Bunter, as he minutely adjusted his new purple paisley pocket square on the morning of his first day of work.

“It fits the persona.”

“I know, but don’t you think it’s a tad overdone with the rest of it?” Peter gestured to indicate his black trousers, crisp black shirt, and the new dove gray blazer with narrow lapels.

“Not at all.”

“This is going to take some getting used to,” Peter said to himself as he unnecessarily smoothed his pale hair. “I am not accustomed to being quite so flashy. My profession has naturally lent me a talent for timeless dressing meant to render the wearer invisible. Rather more Smiley than Bond…No, actually, come to think of it, Smiley was a terrible dresser. He understood quality, but not fit. And I wouldn’t be caught dead in the glasses they put Alec Guinness in.”

Bunter cleared his throat pointedly.

“Ironically, I find these trousers _too_ fitted,” Peter added, self-consciously adjusting the inseam. “You know what I mean, Bunter.”

“I’m sure it will begin to feel more natural as you spend more time as Paul Bredon,” Bunter said reassuringly.

“No doubt,” Peter agreed. “I suppose this only proves Twain right: clothes make the man, indeed. In this case, quite literally. How Sherlock does this, I never will know. It’s good fun, but it feels a bit like the first day of school, you know. New clothes, new people all that…”

Peter’s voice trailed off as he looked at Bunter curiously with a sudden touch of concern.

“You’re not going to be…lonely are you? What with nothing to do and no invalid to amuse?”

 Bunter looked taken aback at this unexpected show of affection and stiffened slightly. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“I…yes, alright.”

Silence fell as Peter adjusted his jacket at the mirror and practiced Paul Bredon’s dramatic gestures and slightly smug poise. He twisted his mouth into a coy, knowing smile and then snorted at its absurdity.  

“As you’re curious, I’ve agreed to teach a several week course in photography to underprivileged youths,” Bunter said suddenly.

“What? Have you really?” Peter exclaimed, completely dropping Paul Bredon’s persona in surprise. “Why, Bunter, how…brilliant! How did this come about?”

“Do you remember Hope Fanshaw?”

Peter frowned in concentration before offering: “Was she the photographer Mycroft assigned to our team when we were in Kuwait? Sharp as a tack with a particularly wicked sense of humor?”

“Indeed, that is she. She’s retired now and runs a small portrait studio as well as teaching photography on the side. She remembered my passion for the art and asked if I had a free few weeks to co-teach a course. As you were on a rather solitary assignment, I felt it would be an appropriate opportunity while still leaving me available for any outside assistance you may require.”

Peter found himself at a loss for words – a rare occurrence for him. Finally he managed, “You know, Bunter, I’m really very glad. I think it’s an excellent idea. I hope it goes marvelously well.”

“Thank you,” Bunter responded gravely. “Though, I have every confidence in Ms. Fanshaw’s organizational capabilities.”

“That wasn’t quite what I meant and you know it, but never mind.”  

Peter turned back to the mirror and Bunter cracked a half smile at his back.

“Now, Bunter, the shoes. Which do you think: the Derby or the Single Monkstrap?  

“The Monkstrap, without a doubt.”

Several hours later, John Braithwaite Thomas, the Editor-in-Chief of _The Times_ , casually escorted Paul Bredon, his interim theater critic, to his new desk. They had met that morning and John Braithwaite Thomas was more than a little stunned at the flamboyant change apparently adopted by his old acquaintance, Peter Wimsey.

“If you need anything, you’ll let me know?” He said with a bit more concern than he would have used for any other employee.

“Absolutely. I’ll be jolly fine here,” Bredon responded reassuringly – poor Tommy still seemed to be slightly in shock. Perhaps it was the pocket square. He set his leather briefcase down next to the chair and brushed some invisible lint from the sleeve of his blazer. “Oh, how lovely,” he exclaimed, noticing the sleek utilitarian desk properly. “A name tag with my full name – and you’ve even spelled it right!” 

“Your middle name is, er, Death?” The Editor-in-Chief asked uncertainly, dawdling.

“Oh yes!” his new theater critic responded cheerfully. “Pronounced just like that. I’m rather fond of it. Now if you’ll introduce me to who’s in charge around here…” Peter raised his eyebrows significantly as a reminder of what they were doing together at the desk. Tommy really was rather hopeless.

“Yes, yes, of course. Hang on, here he is now. Sal!” Mr. Thomas waved over a rather slender, unremarkably dressed, middle-aged man with an average, forgettable face – save for his deep blue, nearly violet-colored eyes. Despite their striking color, to Peter they seemed rather dulled, as though they had a layer of cling film over them.  

“Paul Bredon, this is Salcombe Hardy, the managing editor of the Arts section. Sal, this is Paul Bredon, who’ll be stepping in for Roger while he’s in America.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Hardy said tonelessly, offering an obligatory limp hand but not making direct eye contact.

Peter shook it rather more enthusiastically than was his wont, though in a way that he suspected Paul Bredon would. “The pleasure is all mine, _believe_ me,” he said, bouncing on his toes slightly for emphasis. Salcombe Hardy took an unconscious half-step backwards to avoid the wave of enthusiasm crashing towards him.

“Well,” Mr. Thomas said rather hopefully with a glance between the other two men. “I’ll be off. Let me know if anything comes up.”

Salcombe Hardy and Paul Bredon watched him walk back to the glossy bank of elevators in the back of the open office.

“So,” Hardy said, looking Bredon up and down carefully. “New York, was it?”

“Ten fine years,” Bredon agreed. “But one can only see so much Rattigan and Coward before one misses the motherland.” He sighed wistfully and arranged his features in a look of fond (he hoped) nostalgia.

“Er, yes, I suppose that’s so.” Hardy nodded, though to Peter it seemed like more of a nervous twitch than a nod.

“Anything else I should know?” Bredon asked blithely, noticing with interest that Hardy still seemed distinctly ill at ease underneath his politely neutral manner: his right hand was clenching in and out of a loose fist and his oddly colored eyes seemed to look everywhere but directly into Wimsey’s.  

“Well, don’t ask the girls to bring you tea, remember that the copy editors hold vicious grudges, and your copy is due by four on Wednesday - with the exception, of course, of special features.” 

“Sounds quite alright to me.”

“Divisional meetings are at ten on Tuesdays, so we’ll introduce you to everyone else tomorrow. I assume all of your paperwork is in order?”

“Squared and settled.”

“Excellent. Well, best of luck to you, then.”

Hardy briefly pasted on a smile and wandered off towards his office: a large glass-enclosed room in the corner of the open, modern floor plan.

Peter sat down at his new desk, empty save for the name tag and computer, and pulled out the envelope that Tommy had given him in his office. Inside were two tickets for the Old Vic’s production of _Sweet Bird of Youth_ the following night - his review for which was due to Hardy on Wednesday afternoon.

Peter’s eyes drifted over to Hardy, who sat at his desk, protected by a thick wall of glass. Tommy had told him that Hardy had recently begun to let through rather questionable content compared to his previous, exacting standards. Nothing that technically constituted libel, just poorly researched and inflammatory comments that were more suited to scandal-rags than the more stoic and sedate _Times._

Tommy rather naively suspected cocaine (he never had gotten out much), but Peter, looking at Hardy carefully, couldn’t quite see it. Hardy had lost weight recently – his shirt was too loose about the collar and his suit coat was ill-fitting – and his skin seemed to have developed a queer grey undertone. Not quite the look of the party boys that Peter had met before. If he was on drugs, it seemed like amphetamines were more likely – his odd twitchy manner pointed in that direction. Or perhaps it was just a severe case of insomnia and an overuse of caffeine.

With a mental shrug, Wimsey turned on his computer and opened the internet. No matter what it was that was affecting Hardy and his job performance, it was his job to figure it out. It was also his job to write decent (or, at the very least, passable) copy. Surreptitiously, he glanced to his left and his right to make sure that no one else in the office was watching his screen before typing into the search engine: _How to write a theater review._

\--

“What a day!” Peter sighed, collapsing dramatically into his armchair. “If I ever had designs on being a journalist, they have now been completely and thoroughly quashed.”

“Was it a difficult day in the office?” Bunter asked with a completely straight face from the armchair across from Peter.

“I have the distinct feeling that you’re mocking me. But yes, it _was_ difficult. Everyone was pettily trying to gauge my true knowledge of the theater – it was like living in a _viva voce_ examination that had no end! Hilariously, none of them seemed to notice that I made up half of the references, which made my day slightly more enjoyable.” Peter smirked weakly, pleased with himself.

“Is that so?”

“It’s amazing these days how many people don’t actually know their Gilbert and Sullivan. And it is even more incredible that they are more than willing to accept their lyrics as quotes from modernist plays that I supposedly saw staged in New York. One of the junior film critics didn’t even recognize _Pirates_ when I quoted it to him.”

“Did you use the Major General’s song?”

“Oh, give me some credit; I was much more subtle. I used ‘Hail, Poetry.’ You know: ‘Although our dark career sometimes involves the crime of stealing, we rather think that we’re not altogether void of feeling.’ Somehow, I managed to convince him that it was from a new play about two petty thieves-turned-poets in Harlem. Bless his trusting heart.”

“I’m glad you’ve managed to amuse yourself.”

“Oh, I’ve worked, too, mind. Mr. Hardy will be joining me tomorrow night at the Old Vic in order to keep my lonesome self company and observe my reviewing methods in action.”

“And how are you finding Mr. Hardy?”

Peter frowned slightly. “He is a puzzle, Bunter. He is certainly not at his full potential – Tommy was right about that. He is distracted, nervous, and quite possibly ill. However, he does not seem to have the sinus afflictions of the habitual cocaine user and, when I conveniently splashed water on his sleeve in the loo, his arm bore no trace of needle marks. Of course, it’s a little harder to check for oral usage. If it’s drugs, he hides them well.”

“Perhaps your Editor-in-Chief is overreacting and Mr. Hardy simply has a crisis of a personal nature that he does not wish to discuss publically?”

“Very possible and I should know,” Peter agreed. “I shall have to enquire tomorrow night while we’re at the theater together.”

“Would you like me to be in attendance as well?”

“I think I would,” Peter murmured thoughtfully. “I’ll ask Tommy to get you a press pass so that you can go as a photographer. It’s press only.”

“That would be appreciated.”

“Consider it done.”

Peter stretched out his legs and flexed his toes. “Now that I’ve told you about my day, Bunter, how was yours? How is the esteemed Ms. Fanshaw?”

“She is quite well, thank you,” Bunter responded seriously. “And I believe the class will prove a fruitful exercise in crowd control, though many do seem excited to have a proper camera in their hands.”

“I’m glad it’s going so well,” Peter said, suppressing a laugh. “Though I doubt that between you and Hope the lads will be able to pull too many shenanigans.”

Bunter smiled. “Their creativity is limited compared to what we both have dealt with in the past.”

“I should certainly hope so!” Peter chuckled at the thought of two former MI6 operatives faced with 20 obnoxious teenagers.

The two men sat in contented and companionable silence, reflecting on their respective days.

“Bunter, I think I’m for an early bed,” Peter announced, standing up slowly from his chair. “I’ve not been this tired in a very long time. Earning an honest wage is not as easy as it seems.”

A look of concern flashed briefly across Bunter’s face. “Do you need anything?”

Peter sighed and deeply considered the offer, which carried the weight of all of the dark times that he and Bunter had struggled through together in the last few years.

“I think I’ll be alright this time,” Peter replied softly. “Thank you.”

Bunter nodded understandingly and Peter went upstairs to surrender his mind and body to the sleep of the just.


	3. Chapter 3

Email from Salcombe Hardy to Staff - Arts Division

CC: John B. Thomas

Subject: OOO today

Time: 8:47 AM

 

Good morning all,

 

I will be out of office today in order to accompany my wife, Lucy, to several important appointments. Questions can be referred to your supervisors. I will periodically check my email and will be occasionally available on my mobile if a crisis arises. 

 

Thank you for understanding,

 

Salcombe Hardy

Managing Editor - Arts Division

Times of London

 

 

 

Email from Salcombe Hardy to Paul D. Bredon

Subject: Tonight

Time: 9:02 AM

 

Dear Paul,

 

I know that I agreed to go with you to the show tonight and I deeply regret the fact that I have to cancel. My wife has several appointments today that I need to accompany her to (see my earlier email to all staff about how to contact me today/who to refer to while I'm out of the office). 

 

Don't forget -- your copy is due to the copy editors by no later than 4 pm on Wednesday afternoon. 

 

Regards,

 

Salcombe Hardy

Managing Editor - Arts Division

Times of London

 

 

“Damn it,” Peter swore with feeling as he checked his email. Hardy backing out of their date at the theater meant at least another week as a critic. The amusement of the previous day felt rather distant as a seemingly endless number of days as a critic stretched out before him. Idly he wondered how long it would be until an intern looked up all of the plays he had referenced and realized that none of them existed.

Hopefully that day wouldn’t come for at least another week.

Peter pulled out his mobile and began to complain about his poor luck:

_Text message from Peter Wimsey to Bunter:_

_Time: 9:34 AM_

He canceled on me!

 

_Bunter to Peter Wimsey:_

_Time: 9:36 AM_

Sorry. What happened?

 

_Peter Wimsey to Bunter:_

_Time: 9:36 AM_

His wife! She needs him to take her to some appointment. Blast his wife!

 

_Bunter to Peter Wimsey:_

_Time: 9:39 AM_

Capitalize on the guilt and reschedule for next week?

 

_Peter Wimsey to Bunter:_

_Time: 9:40 AM_

You know my methods well. I will do so. But now I will be attending the theater alone and you can't hold my hand from the photographers’ boxes.

 

 

Bunter did not respond within three minutes and Peter began to get restless. He twirled his mobile in his fingers until he nearly dropped it on the floor. Guiltily, he put down carefully on his desk. He wondered if Bunter would misinterpret his lighthearted joke about being lonely as something more serious. Damn texting for making communication so much more enigmatic!

 

Then, finally, his mobile buzzed and Peter sighed in relief:

 

_Bunter to Peter Wimsey:_

_Time: 9:56 AM_

Invite Ms. Vane?

 

Peter laughed aloud in disbelief, startling the photography intern who was walking past his desk.

 

_Peter Wimsey to Bunter:_

_Time: 9:57 AM_

She won't even say yes to dinner for fear of it coming off as romantic. We are friends and nothing more, as she so frequently says. Why would she agree to a last minute theater date?

 

_Bunter to Peter Wimsey:_

_Time: 9:59 AM_

Try: It's a work engagement, not a date. You would appreciate her company as a fellow writer.

 

_Peter Wimsey to Bunter:_

_Time: 10:00 AM_

I take it all back. You are brilliant. I'll give it a shot.

 

 

It took twenty minutes before Bunter’s mobile buzzed again:

 

_Peter Wimsey to Bunter:_

_Time: 10:21_

Today is a day that will go down in history! Harriet has agreed to accompany me to the theater in a professional capacity. Marvelous thinking.

 

 

Followed immediately by:

 

_Peter Wimsey to Bunter:_

_Time: 10:22_

Stop texting in class -- shouldn't you be setting a good example for all of those youths? I'm surprised Hope hasn't destroyed your mobile by way of a good example.

 

_Bunter to Peter Wimsey:_

_Time: 10:27_

You underestimate my capability for stealth when the need arises. Congratulations.

 

\--

Peter stood outside of the Old Vic feeling uncharacteristically anxious. Harriet had refused to let him pick her up ( _Nothing that will make this seem like a date…_ ) and had preemptively refused his invitation to dinner ( _…including dinner, as lovely as that might be.)_. Perversely, the more she emphasized that this would not be a date – simply an activity shared by two friends – the more Peter felt as though it was one. He shook his head to clear it of the distracting buzz of nervousness and caught sight of Harriet approaching the theater.

She wasn’t particularly dressed to go _out (_ she was dressed only as herself) _–_ a green cardigan, dark jeans, and flat shoes - and Peter felt instantly foolish in his Paul-Bredon-the-theater-critic costume. Harriet made Peter feel many things that he wasn’t accustomed to experiencing and he still – after two years - didn’t know why. She was not a particularly beautiful woman – her mouth was slightly too wide for her face, her complexion was slightly sallow, she never wore make up, and she kept her dark hair in a utilitarian bob – but she was utterly captivating.  Peter, back when he had tried desperately to cultivate a Bond-esque persona, had romanced some of the world’s most classically beautiful women and none of them had ever managed to hold his attention the way that Harriet had.

Perhaps it was her cleverness. She was a mystery novelist and he found them so intelligently crafted that he usually didn’t solve the case until her detective did (how embarrassing for an amateur sleuth!). He hypothesized that it may also have something to do with her eyes. They were large, nearly black and to Peter it seemed as though they could see right through to his very insides. In a poetic moment, he might have described them as polished obsidian, but it would not have done them justice, as an analogy to smooth, cool rock entirely missed the warmth and humor that they radiated when she was amused.

Her eyes were warm now and they positively sparkled as they looked Peter up and down with almost impish delight. “Well, my goodness. Who is it that I am accompanying to the theater tonight? Ernest, I presume?”

“I’m afraid Ernest is visiting Mr. Bunbury tonight. Terribly ill, again. Tonight, in fact, you have the pleasure of the company of Mr. Paul Bredon, an eminent theater critic, only recently returned home from New York City.” Peter gave a theatrical half bow.

“It is an honor to meet you, Mr. Bredon, and I am greatly looking forward to this play,” Harriet said gravely, her eyes still dancing in amusement.  

“As am I, dear lady. Shall we?”

Peter offered Harriet his arm, which she took after a moment of consideration, and he escorted her to their seats.

As they waited for the lights to dim on the nearly empty audience, Harriet whispered in his ear, “What exactly are you doing here, Peter? What did you mean when you said this was in a ‘professional capacity’? This is a press night.”

“I’m working as a theater critic,” Peter replied with complete honesty.

Harriet seemed slightly taken aback by the answer. “And here I was, thinking that you’d schemed this whole thing in order to get me to go to the theater with you. Since when?”

“Yesterday,” Peter admitted reluctantly.

Harriet snorted softly. “You’re not concerned that someone will eventually recognize that Mr. Paul Bredon and Lord Peter Wimsey are one and the same? Never underestimate the resourcefulness of curious journalist – or the memory of theater folk.”

“People see only what they want to see and all of my fellow journalists seem to have no desire to peer beyond the façade. Besides, I’ve never really been a part of this rather jolly circle, you know. Not even at university – this all was really more my sister’s scene. The gaity, the frivolity –ah! I couldn’t bear too much of this. It’s good old books, a fire, and honest companionship for me any day.”

“Minor German poets make such good company for retired spies, do they not?”

“Oh, hush. That is precisely why I don’t trust dogs – that ‘man’s best friend’ bit is truly a sham with devious intent. Besides, I vastly prefer the company of my own countrymen – and women, of course,” he said with a nod to Harriet’s own publications.

“You flatter me, Peter.”

“I intend to.”

“I know,” Harriet said both seriously and mockingly. “I’d have to be blind, deaf, and deprived of every other power of observation to miss it. Though speaking of observations not made, I don’t think I’ve seen any reports of beautiful actresses accused of murder recently. What is it that you’re investigating in the guise of a theater critic?”

“Oh, come now. You are a great exception and don’t you forget it. I don’t just rescue any woman with a newspaper headline, you know.”

Harriet’s eyes turned cold and Peter rushed to fill the moment with words, deeply regretting his lapse in judgment that had had allowed him to compare their meeting to a clichéd damsel and white knight:

“I’m investigating the newspaper, don’t you know. They think one of the editors has got a drugs habit that’s starting to affect his stuff and so: Uncle Peter is on the case! This part, though,” Peter pointed to his well-tailored suit and jazzy pocket square (orange paisley tonight), “was entirely Bunter’s idea.”

Harriet’s lips quirked back into a smile and her eyes thawed at his explanation, his transgression apparently forgiven. “I’m sure he thought you could manage. Heaven knows you can do whatever you set your mind to.”

It took all of Peter’s self-control to refrain from puffing out his chest in pride and a terribly masculine display of ego.

“Well, everything but write theater reviews, apparently,” he allowed humbly.

“Is that why I’m here?”

“Indeed. I need your expert authorial advice and guidance. I am a man of action, not of words.”

“All evidence to the contrary!” Harriet exclaimed in a stage whisper. “Though, in all seriousness, _have_ you ever written anything before?”

“I have a first from Oxford – of course I’ve written _something_.”

“A _review_ , Peter. I meant, have you ever written professionally?” Harriet chided gently.

“Ah, well, there you have me. No,” Peter admitted. “Never have I set pen to paper for honest pay before. But, you know how it goes: I haven’t the talent to be a novelist nor the steady hands for a surgeon, so journalism it is. I _think_ that was Mailer. But I have _some_ faith in my natural abilities, you know. I am but a questing vole: ‘Feather-footed through the plashy fen…’”

“And if you’d read Waugh with more than half an eye, you would have known that was satire.”

“Up to a point, Lady Copper.”

Peter watched Harriet carefully, oddly anxious, and felt his stomach perform a series of acrobatics that caused his brain to melt slightly when she laughed delightedly at his continued (and suitably altered) reference.

“Well, with your expertly chosen words and my effusiveness, we ought to reach the word count in no time at all,” he added, feeling the warmth of his melting brain diffuse throughout his entire body.

“I’d never taken you for someone who went for plagiarism,” Harriet teased.

 “Have you not spent more than five minutes with me?” Peter demanded in mock outrage. “I steal words, sentences, why, whole _paragraphs_ when I’m feeling particularly greedy. That way I don’t have to think up original thoughts. It saves me so much time in the long run.”

Harriet appraised him for a moment, holding him suspended in her eyes. “You are the most ridiculous man I have ever met. Don’t ever change,” she finally pronounced with a fond smile and a laugh. The lights in the theater went down fully, settling the nearly empty hall into semi-darkness.

Harriet nudged Peter’s shoulder, jolting him out of the warm reverie in which he was gloriously basking. “Best put that pen to paper, Mr. Critic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, enter Harriet Vane! 
> 
> For those wondering where Sherlock is in all of this...have no fear. He'll be along shortly.


	4. Chapter 4

The rest of the week and weekend passed without event or incident. Peter made a point of clipping his review from the paper when it appeared – _“My first official publication, Bunter. And to think, after all of my life, it is about theater. The mind boggles.”_ Harriet wished him congratulations for having his name in the papers – “… _or some of them, at least!"_ – which made Peter feel terrifically hopeful about the progression of their friendship.

Monday rolled around, rather gray for late spring, and with it, the responsibilities of the office. Peter secured a promise from Salcombe Hardy that, come hell, high water, or his wife, he would attend the theater on Tuesday night. Peter had just sat down at his desk, feeling rather pleased that his investigation was finally moving forward, when the movement in Hardy’s office caught his eye.

Hardy tended to have decent posture at his desk, but now he was almost comically slouched into his chair. His hand was in his lowest desk drawer, apparently reaching for something. Peter squinted slightly (Paul Bredon was too vain to wear glasses), trying to determine what it was that Hardy might be doing – searching for a lost file? An errant pen? Something more sinister?

Whatever it was that Hardy had been looking for, he apparently found it, for Peter watched him sit up straight. Hardy then brought one hand to his mouth, took a drink of water from the glass on his desk, opened his laptop, and apparently returned to work.

 _He took something_ , Peter thought, his mind rejoicing at having observed a crucial clue. It could, of course, have been nothing more serious than paracetamol for a headache, but with more than a week of undercover work and no results, Peter was willing to investigate nearly anything that Hardy did. Peter thought for a few minutes and then texted Bunter:

_Peter Wimsey to Bunter:_

_Time: 11:27_

I’ll be home late tonight.

 

_Bunter to Peter Wimsey:_

_Time: 11:40_

I will save you some dinner.

 

_Peter Wimsey to Bunter:_

_Time: 11:46_

Thanks. If I need you, I’ll call.

 

 

When his mobile buzzed several minutes later, Peter checked it, anticipating that Bunter had needed a change of plans. Instead, his stomach flipped in a wonderfully nauseating way: it was from Harriet.

 

_Harriet Vane to Peter Wimsey:_

_Time: 12:03_

If you’re free tonight, we should get dinner. Traditional celebration of one’s first publication and all.

 

Peter was suddenly unsure if he were breathing air or water and whether or not it mattered. If this was drowning, then it was exquisite. Harriet _wanted_ to have dinner with _him_.

 

_Peter Wimsey to Harriet Vane:_

_Time: 12:05_

I would be delighted to celebrate with someone who knows what this moment truly means.

 

 

_Harriet Vane to Peter Wimsey:_

_Time: 12:09_

Cheek! You may pick me up at seven thirty.

 

A rather large part of Peter was ready to reply with “As you wish,” but good sense (which deserted him so frequently where Harriet was concerned) intervened and he refrained from the obvious romantic allusion. Instead, he answered most sincerely:

 

_Peter Wimsey to Harriet Vane:_

_Time: 12:12_

With great pleasure

 

\--

 

Late that afternoon, Peter put on a show of annoyance by moaning to everyone within earshot of his desk that one of his sources was unavoidably detained until after six that evening. _And_ his source was insisting on a phone conversation. Several of his neighbors commiserated and wished him well as they left. Hardy suggested, as he passed Wimsey’s desk with his briefcase, that he head home, take the call on his mobile, and just add the quote in first thing in the morning. Wimsey held his ground against the sound logic and lamented the poor mobile service in his temporary flat and just how many calls had been dropped in the few weeks that he had lived there. Hardy, clearly wishing to avoid a drawn-out whine about mobile signals, bid him good-night and hurried out.

 The little show earned him sympathetic nods from several others as they left and a few passing comments about the failings of modern technology, but eventually everyone left him in peace to wait for his call.

An hour later, Wimsey was finally alone in the office. He opened his new briefcase and pulled out his old, rather battered, and much-loved set of lock picks. Casually, he wandered over to Hardy’s office (even though no one else was in the office to see him) and tried the glass door.

Incredibly, it wasn’t locked. Wimsey paused. An open door meant that either there was absolutely nothing of importance to his investigation in the office or that Hardy was so confident in his abilities to hide evidence of drug use that he felt no need to lock the door. Wimsey pocketed the lock picks and slipped into the office. Immediately went for the drawer that he’d seen Hardy rummage around in and take pills from earlier that day and pulled it open. He didn’t bother with gloves, figuring that Hardy probably wasn’t paranoid to check for fingerprints and that, should anyone catch him, gloves would be too difficult to explain away.

The dim emergency lighting in the office illuminated only that the drawer was nearly empty, containing only the usual office miscellanea of dried pens, stray binder clips, and a few sheets of blank paper. Wimsey cautiously put his hand into the drawer to poke about and was immediately rewarded by a small bottle in the back corner.

He pulled it out triumphantly to discover that – just as he’d hypothesized earlier in the day – it was paracetamol.

“Damn,” he muttered.

To be thorough, he opened the bottle, but all of the pills were uniform and he recognized them as paracetamol tablets. Vaguely annoyed at the dead end, he carefully replaced the bottle and shut the drawer. Not wanting to waste the opportunity to poke around in Hardy’s office, he sat down in his office chair.

“If I were you, where would I hide something?” Wimsey asked the empty room.

His eyes wandered around the office. The desk was relatively tidy – a few neat stacks of paper, a computer, and a jar for pens – and the rest of the office was equally and anonymously neat. Wimsey thought it curious that there wasn’t the standard art piece on the wall or an office fern in the corner.

Not seeing anywhere more intriguing to start, Wimsey started opening the other drawers in the desk. He found nothing of interest until the third drawer, where there was a small foil packet underneath a pad of scratch paper.

“Hello, hello, what are you?” Wimsey whispered as he pulled it out of the drawer. It was a sealed foil packet with what felt like a plastic blister inside: something professional, not an amateur job. He walked it over to the single wall sconce that was illuminated to read what the packet said.

“Fentora,” Wimsey read aloud, uncertainly. “Well, I don’t know what you are, but you _look_ very illegal.” He examined the single blister – it seemed to have been ripped from a pack of several blisters – three of the four edges were perforated for tearing. Wimsey put it in his pocket carefully and pulled out his mobile.

_Peter Wimsey to Bunter:_

_Time: 6:23_

Would you do me a favor and look up Fentora?

 

_Bunter to Peter Wimsey:_

_Time: 6:27_

Exceptionally strong opioid used for cancer pain management. Recently mixed with heroin.

 

Peter frowned: was Hardy sick? Surely Tommy would have mentioned it and surely Hardy would have told the office if he’d had cancer and required treatment. Wimsey dismissed the idea – if Hardy really was that sick, then he couldn’t have hidden it from the entire office.

Realization dawned suddenly: dealing prescription drugs. Not cocaine. Not amphetamines. And it certainly didn't look like he was using heroin.  Peter sucked in air through his front teeth and decided to recheck the office for evidence.

He wasn’t lucky enough (and Hardy wasn’t careless enough) to find any evidence supporting heroin use or any other stray pills in the carpeting. He did, however, find an empty prescription bottle in the rubbish bin, buried under several sheets of crumpled paper. The label on the bottle claimed that it had once contained Vicodin, but the line for who the bottle had been prescribed to was curiously blank. Wimsey added the bottle to his pocket and mentally crossed "heroin user" off of the list of possibilities for Hardy.

The rest of the office revealed no other information, so Wimsey hurried out in order to battle London traffic to reach Harriet in time for their dinner.

\--

Wimsey found it difficult to sleep that night: between the elation of a successful and flirtatious dinner with Harriet and the rather concerning evidence from Hardy’s office, his mind seemed to be racing down several different (and not necessarily parallel) tracks at the same time. Instead of bed, he curled up in his dressing gown in his chair, cradling a cup of tea that Bunter had made for him. The foil packet and empty bottle sat on the end table next to him, taunting him with their implications

“It doesn’t seem right,” he said to Bunter, looking at the empty bottle and foil packet. “I mean, think about it. If he really is a chronic abuser of prescription drugs - or even the very unlikely heroin - why would it only just _now_ affect his work? Further, would it affect his work? Is he literally sleeping on the job? A pretty problem.”

“Curious, indeed.”

“I’m going to have to look into that before I tell Tommy,” Peter said with a heavy sigh. “Can’t just go about spreading rumors, you know. I’ve got to actually have some facts that prove that the janitor didn’t just plant the damn things in his office.”

“How do you propose to go about that?”

“I don’t know. This all seemed so much easier last week when the hardest bit was pretending to be a terrible snob and know all about the theater. Now that there’s real work to be done that I can’t do…I can be a military officer, a journalist, and all sorts of government agents, but a drug abuser is beyond me.” Peter’s voice was weary and he scrubbed his face with his hands, rumpling his pale hair. “I really don’t know. Perhaps I ought to wait for Parker to get back and get him to do it.”

“That rather does go against Braithwaite’s wishes, though.”

“Yes, yes, I know. I’m meeting disaster and hoping for triumph, even though Kipling thought them the same. Silly man.”

Bunter hummed in thought, judging Peter’s previous statement.

“Fair enough; it’s not quite as black and white as that. And I take back what I said about Kipling – I didn’t really mean it. Really, I’m just suffering from a great case of stick-to-it-iveness, which is a well-known complication that sets in after a bout with boredom. I’m also possibly the nosiest man in the world. Anyhow, point is, is that there is no way that I’m going to _not_ find out what on earth it is that Hardy is up to. Damn it, I just don’t know how.”  

The two men fell into silence, both staring at the evidence on the table.

“Maybe,” Peter wondered aloud, “he’s not using. Maybe he’s dealing.” He sunk back into silence as he thought through the implications. Bunter frowned in thought.

“Yes,” Peter warmed to his idea. “Maybe he’s dealing. Maybe he’s only just started and it’s distracting him from his work. Now there’s a thought.”

“It’s possible,” Bunter said carefully.

“Of course,” Peter scowled, “I still have no way of knowing that until I investigate. I can’t wait to see me try that. ‘Yes, hello, Hardy. You haven’t got any spare Vicodin on you, have you? Maybe some extra powerful opioids? Ta, there’s a mate,’” he mimed bitterly.

“I’m afraid that I can’t play the role any more convincingly than you,” Bunter admitted.

“We’re both far too square and establishment. Curse both Mycroft and the military!” Peter exclaimed, shaking his fist at the ceiling and only half-joking. “Besides,” he continued thoughtfully, “– and this rather destroys my entire idea – why would he start dealing in middle age? Wasn’t there a show on American telly about that recently? It makes no sense now that I’ve thought about it for more than ten seconds. Never mind.”

“You know…” Bunter’s voice trailed off.

“No, actually, I don’t,” Peter replied, slightly peevish. “What are you thinking of?

“I think you can subcontract this part of the investigation out.”

“To who?”

“Sherlock.”

“To _Sherlock_?”

“He has a network of homeless individuals. It’s very likely that he might have contacts who would know – or at least be able to find out – if Mr. Hardy was dealing or even somehow connected to a source with access to such powerful drugs. From my research, Fentora doesn’t seem like a particularly common drug to abuse. That should make it easier to track him down.”

Peter looked hopeful for the first time since he’d returned home from dinner with Harriet that night whistling a confused, cheerful garble of songs from _My Fair Lady_ : “Do you think he’d do it?”

“I think he’d do just about anything right now.”

“Why?” Peter asked suspiciously. “What do you know that I don’t?”

“Do you still read John Watson’s blog?”

“I…well, I try to keep up with it. But I haven’t for a while,” Peter admitted. “Why? What’s happened?”

“John is on his honeymoon at the moment and Sherlock seems to be both so bored and lonely that he’s taken to posting on the blog and engaging with anyone foolish enough to comment.”

“Wait, what was that?” Peter exclaimed. “John got _married_? How did I miss that?”

“John sent an announcement, but you were rather occupied on that Goyles case with Parker. I did mention it at the time, but I don’t think you were listening.”

“No,” Peter said, rather abashed. “I suppose I wasn’t. My God. Now _that’s_ a change. I should send a card or something.”

“I sent a card from you along with a small gift.”

“Very appropriate. Thank you for taking care of it.”

“Of course. But, as I said, Sherlock seems quite restless. I’m sure he’d take any opportunity for distraction.”

“I’m sure he would. He must be bored out of his mind without John to boss around,” Peter murmured. He stretched hugely and yawned. “I’ll pop ‘round Baker St tomorrow. Thank you for solving my problems from drug smuggling to wedding etiquette – as always. I expected no less.”

Bunter smiled stiffly and nodded.

“Well, I’m off to bed; long day ahead! Say,” Peter paused at the doorway. “Do you think you can cut class to come see Sherlock with me tomorrow morning?”

Bunter hesitated before responding: “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Brilliant.”

Peter made his way slowly up the stairs, whistling a rather shrill version of “On the Street Where You Live.” Bunter listened for several minutes, frowning at the ceiling, until the discordant noise had faded back into silence.

 


	5. Chapter 5

As it turned out, Bunter could _not_ cut class (some excuse about chaperoning a field trip), and so Peter made his way to 221B Baker St. alone.

He felt slightly off-kilter and discombobulated without Bunter (he really shouldn’t feel like that – he’d been working for a week without him, hadn’t he?), as though someone had put a lift in only one of his shoes. Trying to ignore he sensation that he was just ever so slightly off-balance, he pressed the bell and waited for Mrs. Hudson’s genuinely cheerful effusiveness to usher him in.

She did not disappoint.

“Lord Peter!” She cried happily, “Oh, come in, come in!” There was a flurry of arms and kisses before Mrs. Hudson frowned slightly. “No Mr. Bunter today?” she asked, glancing behind Peter as though perhaps Bunter had been hiding in his shadow.

“Other commitments today, I’m afraid,” Peter answered as smoothly as he could, ignoring the fact that he really would have preferred Bunter to be there with him. His rather keen olfactory senses were suddenly overwhelmed by the unexpected scent of rotting, overripe flowers. He spotted the offending bouquet – shoved into a glass vase that was inadequate for its girth – on the small table behind Mrs. Hudson. It had clearly once been a tasteful display of gardenias and lilies, wrapped in yellow ribbon. The last week (Peter could only assume it was from John’s wedding) had not been kind to the bouquet: the white petals were edged with brown and the blooms were open too wide, exposing their delicate innards to the world and releasing the cloud of sickly perfume. Peter shook his head slightly to clear it of the cloying smell of floral death and gave Mrs. Hudson a charming smile: “Speaking of commitments, though, how was the wedding? I’m so sorry to have missed it.”

“Oh, it was absolutely lovely. Mary – have you ever met Mary? No? – well, she looked absolutely beautiful. And it was _such_ nice weather. Such a beautiful day. Oh,” she said gesturing behind her, “These are some of the flowers! John didn’t want them to go to waste and insisted I take some home. Weren’t they lovely?”

Peter hummed noncommittally, eager to go upstairs but knowing that Mrs. Hudson was a vital ally to cultivate. “Glad everyone had a good time, then.”

“Oh, yes, everyone had _such_ a good time. Sherlock even solved some sort of case and DI Lestrade had to arrest the poor man in the middle of the reception!”

“Did he, now?” Peter said with some surprise. “Well, it sounds like it couldn’t have gone much better. How’s…” He lowered his voice, vaguely anticipating that Sherlock would be eavesdropping on the entire conversation, “…how’s Sherlock doing? This can’t be too easy on him, eh?”

Mrs. Hudson’s face fell slightly and she cast a worried look at the ceiling.

“He left the wedding early, you know,” she confided. “And he’s been in a _dreadful_ sulk all week – he even played Monopoly with me yesterday!” She looked meaningfully up at Peter before continuing: “It’s not right – he needs something better to do. I do hope you’ve brought him something to keep him nice and occupied until John and Mary get back from their honeymoon.” Her voice rose hopefully at the end.

“Well, I certainly hope I have,” Peter said warmly, to allay Mrs. Hudson’s concerns. “I’ll just pop upstairs with it, shall I?”

“Yes, dear, of course,” Mrs. Hudson said with a fond pat to his shoulder. “And do say hello to Mr. Bunter for me,” she called up the stairs after him.

Peter knocked on the empty frame of the kitchen door to 221B. The smell of dying gardenias wasn’t as overwhelmingly present up here. Peter wondered if Sherlock had purposefully kept every window open to flush the smell out.  

"What." Sherlock spat from what sounded like the living room, less of a question than a demand. 

"Hullo, Sherlock!" Peter said brightly as he stepped into the flat – and then stopped. He was glad that the windows had been apparently kept open all week – the flat looked as though it was rapidly descending into squalor and Peter could imagine the smell that ought to have accompanied it. Mugs half-filled with tea, some beginning to mould, were scattered indiscriminately about: one was on the bookshelf, a collection were on the kitchen table, and one was worryingly on its side on the windowsill. Books and journals lay open around the room as well, abandoned in various states of completion. Several linen napkins with grey splotches on them lay forlornly under the table, having been clearly kicked there by someone with dirty shoes. Sherlock himself seemed somehow untidy, a state that Peter had never seen him in before and hadn’t been sure that he was capable of. Today, though, his dressing gown was crumpled, his shirt collar badly creased, and his hair tangled rather than artfully messy. His face seemed thin to the point of gauntness and Peter wondered uncomfortably if he’d consumed anything other than tea in the last week.

"How are you doing?" Peter asked as he stepped forward, managing to inject enthusiasm into his words to cover his increased concern.

"Stop being tedious. What do you want?"

"Oh, come now. Don't spoil the moment! We're acquaintances - if not friends - who haven't seen each other for months. I am interested to catch up on your life. Not too agonizing, is it?" Peter stopped across from Sherlock, who was slouched in his customary chair, though still managing to glare imperiously up at him. 

"Erm," Peter said, suddenly aware that he was standing in an unexpectedly empty patch of floor in front of Sherlock. "Wasn't there another chair here?"

Sherlock continued to glare furiously in response. 

"Alright, alright," Peter said, raising his hands in a mock surrender, and sitting on the edge of the coffee table instead (only after checking to make sure that he wasn’t about to sit in something toxic, sticky, or both). He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Now, we'll try that again. How are you doing, Sherlock? Long time, no see."

Sherlock paused before answering, clearly weighing the benefits of responding against the benefits of telling Peter to shove it. "Fine," he eventually replied with a mockery of politeness. 

"See? Not too awful, is it?” Peter said, studiously ignoring the sarcasm. “How was the wedding last week?"

The veneer of politeness evaporated instantly. "For God's sake, I could hear every word between you and Mrs. Hudson! You know perfectly well how the wedding went - you don't need to ask me." 

"Yes, but I would love to hear how such a big event was from your perspective," Peter replied patiently. “As you could obviously hear, Mrs. Hudson alluded to several tantalizing details about your involvement in the day, but neglected to mention what sort of matrimonial crime it was that you solved.” 

"Well," Sherlock said primly, his anger carefully back under control. "Before we get to the _tantalizing details,_ I do believe that in this social convention of small talk that you are insisting we engage in it is my turn to ask  _you_  a question so as to prevent this from turning into a repeat of the Inquisition." 

"Fair enough," Peter conceded. 

"When can we expect your own happy announcement?" Sherlock asked with a severely impolite thread of maliciousness running through the words. 

"Sorry?"

"Happy announcement, banns posted," Sherlock explained, waving his hand in irritation. "However it is that your shockingly Edwardian sensibilities prefer to think of it.

Peter sat back on the table slightly, perplexed. Did Sherlock know about Harriet? He definitely knew about the case, having first introduced him to her trial. But, did he know that they were becoming closer? It had really only happened last night. Was he being that obvious? How shaming if he was.  

"For God's sake, look at your face! Your posture! They practically scream the happy news. I should know better than anyone - haven't I just witnessed holy matrimony up close? Where is the bridegroom, by the way?"

Peter frowned, even more deeply confused - who and what on earth could Sherlock be referring to now? Bridegroom? Had Sherlock finally lost his mind? "Who are you talking about?" He asked carefully. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes in great exasperation that Peter was obviously not keeping up with his basic thought process. "How on earth do you pass yourself off as a detective? I thought Mycroft's men were supposed to be among the best and most competent. Bunter! For God’s sake, Bunter! Your most faithful companion! The man who brings out the most unfortunately girlish side of Mrs. Hudson! You lied to her downstairs -- where is he? Picking a venue?"

Various things fell suddenly into place in Peter's mind. 

"Bunter and I are not engaged and we’re not together," he said with a laugh. "And I didn't lie to Mrs. Hudson; he _does_ actually have another commitment this morning that is completely unrelated to me. We do actually have separate lives, you know."

Sherlock had looked slightly stricken at Peter's first words, but managed to arrange his features in a sneer by the time Peter had finished. 

Peter slightly regretted the last dig at Sherlock and John's obvious codependency, but he thought it was only fair to feed Sherlock a bit of his own medicine for his abominable manners. He examined Sherlock’s expression carefully and hazarded a guess: 

"I think you’ve just got wedding on the brain," he diagnosed gently. "I'm sorry that this has been rough going for you."

Sherlock managed a glare and rallied his haughtiest attitude. 

"Would you like to quiz me about the honeymoon next?" he asked Peter bitterly. "Before you ask: No, I haven't been there. Yes, I'm sure the weather will be lovely. And, yes, John will be back in two weeks." 

Peter was taken aback by just how raw Sherlock seemed to be over John. "I think we've done enough," he suggested 

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. 

"You need help with a case, I presume," he said.

"Only if you're interested. And if you keep _that_ up, you’ll get eyestrain."

For a moment, Sherlock looked as though he would be dismissive, but the obvious boredom of the last few days triumphed (even over his apparent need to have a smart comeback for Peter’s medical advice) and he capitulated.

"Alright," he allowed.

"Excellent! So, to summarize this quickly, I've hit a bit of a hard place in an investigation that I'm doing at _The Times_. I'm supposed to be checking to see if a particular editor is using drugs because his work has taken a bit of a slide in quality in the last few months. However, I found some evidence last night that he might be dealing."

"And using?" Sherlock asked, sharply.

Peter sighed. "No. Well, I don't know. Something about him seems off, but I haven't got any evidence that he's using anything stronger than paracetamol and coffee."

Sherlock steepled his fingers. "And you want me to look into whether or not he's dealing."

"I know my limits and so does Bunter," Peter admitted. "I can play at just about every branch of government and, apparently, theater critics, but the drugs black market is a bit beyond the both of us."

"Prescription drugs, then," Sherlock clarified.

"Yes. Actually, Bunter thinks it might be a bit of a rare one for the street, possibly something that’s mixed with heroin, so maybe it’ll be easier to trace. Here's what I've got." Peter pulled a sealed bag with all of the evidence from the night before from the inside of his coat and placed it next to him on the coffee table. Sherlock held out a demanding hand and Peter passed over the bag.

"His name is Salcombe Hardy, but I doubt he'd use it," he offered as Sherlock carefully extracted the foil packet and blank bottle from the plastic. “Bit unique, you know.”

Sherlock waved the hand not holding the pill bottle dismissively. "No matter."

"Is there anything else you need from me?"

"No," Sherlock replied offhandedly, apparently absorbed by the evidence.

Peter stood to leave. "Alright, well, keep in touch. And, thank you, of course."

Sherlock grunted, holding the foil packet up to the beam of light from the window as though a confession may have been written on it in UV-sensitive ink.

Recognizing that he was dismissed, Peter walked downstairs, breathing through his mouth to avoid the smell of sweet floral death, only to be greeted by Mrs. Hudson's rather anxious face peering up the stairs. More than one eavesdropper in 221, he thought rather darkly.

"Did he take it?" she whispered conspiratorially.

Peter nodded and gave her a thumbs up, not speaking to avoid the need to breathe through his nose. 

"Oh, how wonderful," she said warmly, clearly relieved. "And do say hello to Mr. Bunter for me."

"Of course." Peter saluted her cheek with a kiss, sacrificing his olfactory happiness until out of the building in return for the guarantee that Mrs. Hudson would continue to like him. "Have an absolutely splendid day," he said as she laughed delightedly at his utterly charming behavior.

Once safely outside in the fresh air (the soles of his shoes still felt disconcertingly uneven), Peter dropped his bright effusiveness and inhaled deeply several times to purge his lungs of the funereal fug of the lilies and gardenias. His nose began to run in protest and he patted his pockets but, to his great dismay, found that he had no tissues and certainly no handkerchief. _Bunter would have had something_ , he thought as he desperately checked his coat pocket for a second time.

His nose was insistent in a way that only dripping noses can be, and, without Bunter, Peter was reduced to committing an unspeakable act. Feeling a deep personal loathing for desecrating a garment in such a way, Peter unbuttoned his cuff and very cautiously dabbed his nose on the inside of the sleeve. As he carefully buttoned the cuff again and checked to make sure that a damp spot wasn’t visible near his wrist, he was suddenly grateful that Bunter hadn’t been there to witness his slovenly behavior.


	6. Chapter 6

Peter, upon arriving back from the theater late that night, had sat at the piano bench and half-heartedly sketched some scales in a poor attempt to rally his thinking into making better sense of the day’s events. His brain, however, had not been amenable to complex thought and smooth logic, preferring instead to play a single note over and over again. After thirty seconds of fruitlessly pressing the B-flat below middle C, Peter abandoned the hard bench for his plush armchair and a tumbler of brandy from Bunter, who stopped reading a thick stack of paper and asked Peter rather warily about his day.

Bunter was pleased that Sherlock had agreed to take the job of investigating Salcombe Hardy’s possible connection to the world of prescription drug dealing (though Peter hadn’t told him _precisely_ the conversation that he and Sherlock had shared) and shared several choice anecdotes about the perils of taking twenty rowdy teenagers to an art museum. Peter dutifully laughed in all of the appropriate places, but his face fell into annoyance when Bunter asked how his night at the theater with Hardy had gone.

“I never thought I’d say this, Bunter, but I’m starting to tire of the theater and all of the dreary nonsense that goes along with it.”

“It didn’t go well?” Bunter asked sympathetically, carefully putting the rather large sheaf of papers that had been resting on his lap into a red folder and under his chair. Peter, absorbed in his annoyance with the progress of his investigation, did not notice.

“I have spoken with diplomats, various heads of state, most of Britain’s blessed hereditary peers, and negotiated with bloody terrorists and I have _never_ met a man less receptive to charm, flattery, and conversation than Salcombe Hardy. Nothing – and I mean _nothing_ – worked. There were no chinks in his armor: not his family, not his wife, not his job, not his schooling. For Christ’s sake, I even asked him about his shoes!”

Peter took a long drink of his third brandy in exasperation.

“Thank you for the brandy, by the way,” Peter said by way of apology for his outburst and the maltreatment of the brandy. “Although I feel more like burning myself in it than consuming it, it does go down nicely. An excellent bottle, I must say.”

“Of course. Have you got another review to write, then?”

“Oh God, yes I do,” Peter groaned, the alcohol in his blood increasing his natural inclination for dramatics. “I can’t even remember half of the play, I was so focused on trying to get Hardy to talk about _anything_ in his life. _And_ I haven’t got Harriet this time to hold my hand through it. I suppose she’ll think that first one was just beginner’s luck and never want to see my face again once my proper failings have been publically revealed.”

Peter took another sip of brandy, rolling it across his tongue and savoring it pensively. Bunter watched him closely.

“You know,” Peter mused, looking at the brandy through the cut facets in the glass. “This was always the part that I thought I was good at. I mean, that’s what I’ve always done: talk to people and get them to say and do what I want. I exercise my naturally inbred charm, inherited from 700 years of Wimseys, in order to have situations happen in my favor. Perhaps Hardy is the sign that I should retire to the countryside and become passionate about wildflowers.”

Peter winced suddenly at the thought of wildflowers, remembering the rotting gardenias at Baker Street and, belatedly, the embarrassing spot on the inside of his sleeve that Bunter was sure to notice later. “Or perhaps birds,” he amended. “I could wear lovely tweeds and carry charmingly antique binoculars as I tramp through the moors with a picnic lunch.”

“Are…are you quite well?” Bunter asked with trepidation, still watching Peter’s obviously tired and fairly tipsy features intently for signs of the nervous collapses that had been so frequent several years before.

“Just resoundingly aware of my own shortcomings today. This investigation business is harder than it looks – John deliberately mislead me with his blog posts about how quickly cases were solved. Speaking of which, I wonder how Sherlock’s getting on. I half expected him to have been waiting here at the flat upon my return from the theater, announcing that he’d solved the case because I’d missed the obvious clues. That’s the sort of day it’s been.”

Bunter shrugged. “He’s not been in touch.”

“Curious. Perhaps it takes more than a day to properly infiltrate the London drugs market. Be sure to remind me to tease him about that whenever he does turn up.”

“Of course,” Bunter said seriously.

Peter chuckled and finished his brandy in a single go.

“Bunter?” he asked, rotating his empty glass against the arm of the chair.

“Yes?”

“Don’t think me horribly rude and impertinent for asking this, but why are you here?”

Though Bunter’s posture had been admirable throughout the evening, his spine stiffened defensively. “Why am I in this chair, you mean? I was waiting up for you as you hadn’t arranged for a press pass at the theater for me tonight.”

“No, no. God, I really must learn how to use more specific and evocative words now that I’m a writer, mustn’t I? And, I’m really very sorry about the press pass – it got buried in the madness of the last two days. I meant, erm, well…why did you stay with me after…after, well, you know…” Peter’s natural eloquence failed him spectacularly and his words tipsily burbled off into a muddle.

Bunter’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why are you asking me this?” he said very quietly.

“Oh, it was just something Sherlock said that got me to thinking,” Peter said off-handedly. “I mean, look at you!” Peter waved his empty hand at Bunter, his joints loosened by the brandy. “You had a career with MI6 and the military! They’d have kept you on. Mycroft would have given you missions. Why give it all up to look after me?”

“Mycroft is still paying my salary,” Bunter said slowly, still trying to determine Peter’s intentions. “Just like he’s paying yours.”

“Oh, come on,” Peter scoffed good-naturedly. “You didn’t do it for the money! And don’t give me some bosh about ‘no man left behind’ because I’ve seen you be ruthless.” Peter blinked owlishly, his timing impaired by alcohol, and stared at Bunter with childish expectation.

Bunter was quiet for a long time. Finally, he asked: “What did Sherlock say to you?”

“Oh, he just made a passing comment that he thought we might, well, be engaged to be married,” Peter said, his voice still light despite his inebriation.

Bunter blinked in shock.

Peter began to explain, talking even more quickly than usual: “I really think it’s just a side-effect of watching John get married, you know. He was just projecting his own feelings onto us. I mean, we all knew that he loved John – all that business with trying to help him with his PTSD. Apparently he could see that I’d had a lovely time with Harriet the night before and had assumed that it had been with you. I wouldn’t take it too seriously. He’s just got John on the brain. I guess I just wondered what he might have seen in you to be able to say that.”

Peter closed his eyes for a few moments, suddenly overwhelmed by exhaustion and unwilling to look Bunter in the eye to see his reaction.

Bunter, meanwhile, hadn’t moved, hadn’t blinked, hadn’t hardly breathed during Peter’s tipsy explanation of Sherlock’s deduction that they must be engaged. His hands were gripping the arms of the chair as though they were his only anchor to reality: he willed them – and himself – to relax.

“I don’t really have an answer for that,” Bunter said cautiously.

“That is a perfectly proper response, but it is by no means adequate or believable.” Peter pronounced thickly from quite deep in the cushions of his armchair. “It has been more than three years – of course you have an answer for why you gave up your life of danger and excitement for…this.” Peter gestured loosely to indicate the flat and himself with the hand still holding his now empty tumbler.

“You needed someone,” Bunter allowed.

“Mycroft could have hired someone; it didn’t have to be you.” Peter countered impolitely, but sincerely.

“I knew you best and I’m sure he would have picked me in the end. I saved him the paperwork and the time.”

“Generous man,” Peter snorted.

Peter was having problems keeping his eyes open and he nestled deeper, cat-like, into his chair and began to mumble:

“He called me Edwardian. Do you think I’m Edwardian? Was that an insult? _I_ think it means he sees you as the Jeeves to my Wooster. Unflattering to me, but not too bad for you, I suppose. I should learn the banjolele just to annoy you. Of course, you’re your own man and not mine, so he’s completely wrong; I’ll have to tell him that when he comes by with news on Hardy. I wonder of Jeeves could have been a spy…God, I hope your hangover cures are just as good as his; I’ll need one in the morning. I’m so shamefully out of practice. No raw eggs, though. Can’t stand the texture. ” Peter’s voice trailed off hazily.

Bunter shook his head fondly in appreciation of the obvious parallels. “I’ll eat more fish and be sure to correct your deplorable etiquette.”

“I’m not as thick as Bertie, am I? I know Sherlock thinks I’m a complete fop.”

“No, not at all.”

“I _can’t_ be Edwardian; I’ve got a television where the mirror should be. Look.” Peter pointed towards the mantle which indeed had a flat-screen television mounted over it. “Oh, and that’s another…another, hmm, point off for my vanity. No mirror. What good Edwardian gentleman would get rid of the mirror?”

Bunter shook his head.

“Hmm,” Peter grunted in belated appreciation of Bunter’s earlier answer. “You never really answered my question, you know. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Sorry I pried. It’s Sherlock’s fault, though, so you can blame him.”

“It’s fine.”

“Good,” Peter whispered, nearly asleep.

Bunter watched Peter drift off to sleep, a deep ache settling in his chest. He cursed Sherlock silently and effusively for having made the (frankly) easy deduction and having the poor grace to reveal it to Peter.

Rather gingerly, he reached under his chair and pulled out the sheaf of papers that he’d been going through earlier. He stared at the cover page – which bore the title: _Wimsey and Bunter, Ltd._ – and then threw them on the ground in a sudden burst of frustration.

With a pang of horror, he looked up at Peter, who was still sleeping rather soundly in his chair, apparently unconscious to the sound of a hundred sheets of paper hitting the floor. Bunter sighed deeply, regretting his impulsive and angry reaction, got down on his knees, and began to collect all of the loose pages again.


	7. Chapter 7

Three days later, Bunter stood in front of Lord Peter Wimsey's closed bedroom door, weighing the options for what he should do. It was four in the morning and Bunter had already delayed for fifteen minutes by uncharacteristic dawdling. A good portion of the dawdling, however, had been devoted to breathing exercises to prevent his fury from shattering every bone in Sherlock’s body. With another deep breath, he squared his shoulders, quietly slipped into Peter's bedroom, and approached the bed. 

 "Peter, wake up," he said quietly, hoping to make the transition from sleep to wakefulness a gentle one.

Bunter shook Lord Peter's shoulder. Peter only curled up more compactly and pulled the duvet higher over his body to protect against the intrusion. 

"Wake up, Peter." Bunter said much more firmly, shaking his shoulder again.

This time, Peter jerked awake. 

"Bunter? What? What is it?" His arms attempted to flail, but were constrained by the encompassing duvet, and he succeeded only in thrashing back and forth. "Has someone died? Are we under attack?"

Blinking hugely against the lamp that Bunter had just switched on he asked, more coherently around a yawn: "Christ, what time is it?"

"It's four in the morning and no one has died."

"Then what, for God’s sake, are you doing at my bedside at such an ungodly hour without an emergency?" Peter asked with a sleepy attempt at asperity. “Wait, hang on, you never said: are we under attack?”

Even in the dim light of the room, Bunter managed to radiate exasperation. "In a way. Sherlock is here to see you and is quite insistent."

"What?" Peter was so stunned that he was reduced to a monosyllabic response. 

The syllables returned quickly: "Are…are you serious? Oh God, you aren't joking. Can't you tell him to come back at a much more reasonable time? Say, breakfast? I'll even eat early if that suits."

"I did and he refused. He is waiting  _very_  impatiently in the living room."

"Well if he managed to get past you it must be really serious, my God. So it goes. Let him know I’ll be down." Bunter left to placate (and possibly to restrain) their impatient visitor, relieved that Peter had taken it so well. Peter sat up slowly and began to assemble himself to face the day far earlier than he would have liked. 

He ambled downstairs in the slight daze of an interrupted REM-cycle to find Sherlock, blazingly awake, still wearing his coat, and pacing in front of the fireplace. His energy was a contrast to Bunter's great stillness. In what was probably a remnant of a dream, Peter briefly saw Bunter as actually made of marble and had to suppress a giggle at the thought of a disapproving-Bunter glaring at generations of schoolchildren in a museum. Biting his tongue to sober himself, he addressed Sherlock:

"Good morning, Sherlock. Although it really can't be too good a morning when I am wrenched from my bed at such an early hour. Would you like to sit and tell me what couldn't possibly wait until after sunrise? Oh, and, of course, a belated welcome to the flat that is only half of yours.”

Peter sat down and tucked his dressing gown about himself with the air of buckling a seatbelt. Sherlock didn't sit but stopped pacing, thrown off by Peter’s words.

“No, yours is actually larger.” he said dismissively.

“But this is _110A_ and you live in _221B_. Thus, mathematically, this is just slightly less than half of yours.”

Sherlock’s mouth curled in disgust at just how unserious Peter was acting and, perhaps, at just how feeble his humor was.

“Joke! Joke! It was only a joke and not even a very good one. Sorry. Let’s start again: please, what are you doing here?”

"I've solved your case," Sherlock said slowly, emphasizing each syllable, as though Peter had asked the most obvious question in the world.

Peter sighed, "Okay. Thank you, but did I really need to know that at the very moment you finished?"

Sherlock frowned in incomprehension. "Yes! This is important."

"Well, it is to me, yes. But not so important that it couldn’t have waited, say, three hours." 

"No, no, no! This is world-changing!"

"If I recall the facts of the case correctly - and do correct me if I'm wrong; I know how much you love doing that - this was a distinctly mundane case with the caveat that I didn't know enough about prescription drugs abuse to have been any good at finishing it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. "What you don't know and apparently can’t see is astonishing. You've missed the biggest part of this case-"

Bunter interrupted what was sure to be a scathing insult to Peter's intelligence, "Do not test my patience further today, Sherlock. Tell us what you were asked to investigate."

To Peter’s amusement, Sherlock’s manner changed instantly the moment that Bunter put him under threat. Although clearly annoyed at having his moment snatched viciously away, Sherlock did explain, slightly deflated:

“His wife. It’s his wife.”

“Sherlock,” Peter said kindly after a moment of thought. “Not that I doubt your intelligence or the methods that you’ve used to acquire this, but are you _quite_ sure? It’s just, well, you’ve clearly been obsessed by weddings and marriage recently and I’d hate for that—“

“Oh, for God’s sake! You asked me to do a job and I’ve done it. Lucy Hardy, the dear and devoted wife of your managing editor, has been stealing drugs from the chemotherapy ward that employs her to both sell and use. Now, would you like the evidence or would you prefer that I take my obviously addled brain off to be placated by some horrific film in which the romance is actually a form of stalking and/or abuse?”

“All right. Keep your shirt on.” Peter said hastily as Bunter glared at Sherlock with an unexpectedly large amount of venom.

“I’d still love the evidence,” Peter prompted.

Sherlock looked sulky. “I just told you: she’s been stealing painkillers to use and sell for the last several years.”

“That homeless network of yours came through, did it? Though, that doesn’t quite explain why Hardy’s work has suffered only in these last few months. Or why some of the drugs were in his office.”

Sherlock perked up slightly, but only to condescend. “I gathered the evidence myself. And that is _precisely_ why this is fascinating.”

Bunter cleared his throat loudly. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but continued to explain, addressing Peter with the apparent non sequitur: “You’re an employee now – do you know who owns _The Times_?”

Peter frowned. “Uhm, foreign, I believe, but no.”

“Don’t you look at your paycheck? It would add verisimilitude to your cover if you did. It’s a man by the name of Charles Augustus Magnussen, a Danish media mogul.”

“Okay, yes, I’ve heard the name before. What does that have to do with my editor and his wife’s drugs problem?”

“Everything. You’ve clearly been far too focused on the Middle East in your professional endeavors to somehow have avoided encountering Magnussen. He owns dozens of papers all over the word. He effectively _is_ the news. He is also the world’s most powerful blackmailer and engages in it as though it were sport.”

Peter frowned deeper in concentration, wondering if the interrupted sleep was impairing his thinking in any way. “This doesn’t quite make sense. If he is a blackmailer and has somehow found out about Hardy’s wife and drugs, why would he blackmail him into sabotaging his own publication? He’s just hurting himself.”

“Ah, but he’s really not. All he needs is a whisper of a scandal to be suggested by a prominent source as punishment for a victim who does not comply with what he’s asking. Scandal sells papers. Scoops sell papers – even non-tabloids. Surely you know this. Magnussen worked through every managing editor on the staff, found that Hardy was the weakest of the lot, and took advantage. Now there’s an easy place to punish his other victims.”

Sherlock looked quite pleased with himself at having found the very clever solution to the untidy puzzle of facts.

“All right, that’s very good. Well, actually, it’s quite horrible when you think about it,” Peter said. “But, how do you know? Is this conjecture? The only plausible explanation for the facts? Are you just being an armchair detective here?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled a flash drive from his pocket. “Unlike my brother, I do my own research. The proof is right here. The private investigators that Magnussen hired were shockingly willing to tell all in return for not being turned over to Lestrade for a wide variety of crimes.” He tossed the drive to Peter, who caught it.

“You’ll find that Magnussen has blackmailed Hardy into publishing stories chosen by Magnussen himself in exchange for not turning his wife in to the authorities. Hardy, foolishly, has not only been blackmailed over his wife, but has gotten himself involved with the drugs selling in a misguided attempt to protect her. This, of course, has only set himself up to be blackmailed further as Magnussen now has even more power over him. Idiot.”

“The things we do for love,” Peter sighed. Sherlock quite inexplicably snorted and glanced at Bunter.

Deciding to ignore whatever rude undercurrent was passing between Bunter and Sherlock, Peter continued, “Shady character, that Magnussen. I wonder if he’s tried to run a search on me. Mr. Bredon has a most amusing, though thoroughly dull, backstory as a critic and an amateur playwright. He even has a speeding summons for a rather misguided night of revelry as an undergraduate.”

“I hate him,” Sherlock said coldly.

“Who, Bredon? Oh, Magnussen. Why?” Peter laughed. “The way I see it, you’ve just blackmailed two men for this information on the drive. Isn’t that the same thing that he’s doing do Hardy?”

“ _I_ was helping someone. He destroys lives for the sheer pleasure of being able to do so.”

“That’s awfully reassuring. Thank you, by the way, for doing this for me. Would you like to stay for a rather early breakfast? If we take our time, we might just see the sun come up.”

“I prefer not to eat while I’m on a case.”

“You’ve just finished your case,” Peter pointed out logically. “And in a rather more dramatic conclusion than I expected. Surely that deserves some celebratory toast? I can have Bunter break out the finest jam.”

“I have research to do.”

“Well, suit yourself, then. I’ll enjoy this with my breakfast.” Peter reached for his laptop in order to explore the contents of the drive.

Sherlock stared at Peter in disbelief. “Are you serious? I’ve just brought you a fascinating new avenue of research for this case and you’re going to eat _breakfast_.”

“Yes,” Peter replied, unperturbed. “That’s what I do.”

“Don’t you think that Magnussen’s blackmail network _might_ be a bit more important?”

Peter shrugged. “Not right now.”

“A master blackmailer is apparently running a bigger scheme than the one that you’re investigating and you’re just going to let it be.” Sherlock’s voice was flat in complete disbelief.

“Yes, I think I am. Magnussen isn’t the case I’m investigating. I was supposed to answer whether or not Salcombe Hardy was taking drugs. I have the answer. End of.”

“This is clearly why humanity is still at war – our governments are populated by idiots like you!” Sherlock’s voice rose in sheer frustration: “It is obvious – so _blatantly obvious_ – that this case is far from over and you’re just going to ignore the facts in front of your face!”

“Sherlock,” Peter explained with a great deal of steeled patience. “I am _not_ ignoring it. In fact, I am intrigued and find it deeply disturbing. What I _am_ doing is protecting myself.”

Sherlock frowned incredulously in apparent incomprehension.

“To examine the facts that you have just accused me of ignoring: a very powerful man is apparently up to some scheme that will inevitably hurt quite a few people. This is not something I should walk into alone and without preparation. I was prepared to investigate whether or not a man was taking drugs. I – with your help – have done so. Therefore, it is self-preservation not to go rogue into the shark-infested waters.”

“You’ve got Bunter; you’re not alone.”

“And by ‘alone’ I meant without the support of at least one government agency to back me up. Trying to investigate a powerful and apparently very successful blackmailer as a private citizen? I don’t think so. Furthermore, there is really nothing I can do for several hours and skipping breakfast is a poor start to the day.”

Peter turned back to his computer with an air of finality, pointedly opened a file from the flash drive, and settled in to read.

Sherlock stared at him, blinking furiously, before muttering “Oh, for God’s sake,” and storming out in a dramatic swirl of coat.

Peter looked up from his computer and caught Bunter’s eye as the front door slammed.

“I’ll bet he’s going straight off to begin an investigation into Magnussen, don’t you think? I really wasn’t trying for reverse psychology, but you can’t deny that it happens.”

“Absolutely,” Bunter agreed. “Bastard doesn’t know when to back down.”

“Oh, language from Bunter – a nerve has been touched! Christ, though,” Peter sighed, rumpling his hair. “I know I was making light of it with Sherlock, but that’s a damn bombshell.”

“It’s definitely not a pretty picture for friend Hardy.”

“God, no.”

“Just out of curiosity, what are you planning to do with this information?”

Peter bit his lip, a gesture which struck Bunter as incredibly vulnerable.

“You know, I’m half tempted just to tell Tommy that he’s not using and that’s the truth. However, I know that if he orders an investigation into just what is going on with Hardy’s suddenly lowered standards, he’ll eventually figure out about the dealing and then it’s going to be a right proper mess with Magnussen somehow. I don’t know.”

“You could just tell him that the wife is dealing and not mention the bit about Magnussen and blackmail.”

“I could,” Peter said unhappily. “I just…I hate to ruin their lives like that.”

“You do realize that he’s already ruined it himself along with a little help from a blackmailer.”

“I know. But I would be the one responsible for bringing it to light. I mean, what is it worth to me? Thirty pieces of silver, perhaps?” he said bitterly.

Peter shut his laptop forcefully in frustration and drummed his fingers against the top. His fingers seemed to be attempting Chopin on an imaginary keyboard – but hitting a nail on the edge of the computer snapped him back into focus, mid-waltz.  

“I’m not going to work today,” he announced.

Bunter nodded understandingly. “Do you need anything?”

“No more insistent visitors.”

Bunter snorted in appreciation.

“And no breakfast. I’m not actually hungry. I’m going back to bed.”

Peter trudged, defeated, back upstairs. Bunter swore he heard him mumble wearily, “I hate this bit,” as he latched his door against the rest of the world.


	8. Chapter 8

Peter sat in his armchair, holding the morning's paper. How curious it was, he thought, that so many problems could be tied to this smooth paper and ink. He shouldn't be surprised, really; one of the first things he'd learned under Mycroft had been that the pen was indeed mightier than the sword (updated, of course, for modern communication and weaponry -- the old words just had a certain ring to them). The words that Mycroft had been thinking of, of course, had decided the fates of countries and ways of life for entire peoples. These words on the other hand, Peter thought sardonically as he noticed a typo, dictated the lives of so many individuals in so many different ways. Absently, he tore a corner of the front page and enjoyed the obvious irony of the ease of destruction of the physical paper and the permanence of the impact that the words had. 

His thoughts turned to Salcombe and Lucy Hardy. Although he really had no hand in determining what they had done and how their lives would end up now that their drugs and blackmail had been exposed, his thoughts were still heavy with guilt. So many lives in the balance -- and it took so little to throw them off. 

It had been a week since his last day at the paper. In the morning, he’d told Tommy nearly everything from Sherlock’s evidence about Hardy and his wife and suggested that the best course of action was to put Hardy on personal leave while he tended to his wife’s health.

“Leave?” Tommy spluttered in shock. “Hasn’t he broken dozens of laws in the meantime? Oh Christ, what a disaster.”

“He’s a good man, Tommy,” Peter said firmly. “He’s just made some mistakes and needs to put his life back in order.

“I suppose. But, imagine if this got out somehow…do you realize how bad it would look?”

“It _won’t_ get out so long as you follow my recommendations and let him come back to his post in a few weeks.”

The thought of allowing Hardy to continue to be blackmailed was a bitter one, but it was better than to upset the status quo and allow Magnussen to destroy him. Besides, if Peter knew anything about blackmailers, Magnussen would continue to blackmail Hardy even after his wife had stopped using and dealing – particularly since Hardy was so useful in managing so many of his other victims.

Thus, Peter’s first act on leaving Tommy was to go straight to Hardy’s office and explain who he really was and what he had been doing. Hardy had been understandably furious and shocked but had accepted Wimsey’s offer of the best rehabilitation that money could buy for his wife and the promise that he would continue to publish what Magnussen asked for the time being.

“I’ve got a good man on the job,” Peter said reassuringly to Hardy, who looked as though he’d just been through a clothes press. “Between the two of us, we’ll figure something else out for you.”

Of course, Peter had not been back in contact with Sherlock since then. He had spent most of the week emotionally reconciling himself to his actions – largely by playing the piano every night until his fingers became leaden with fatigue. Bunter had been a silent, though appreciative, audience for many of these concerts; they had a shared admiration for Bach. He had joined Harriet for lunch one day – a picnic in Regent’s Park on a brilliant summer’s afternoon – and amidst the happiness of her company, he’d asked:

“I’ve always wondered: how do you do it?”

“Do what, precisely?”

“Write detective stories.”

“Well,” Harriet began slowly. “It all depends. Usually I’m struck with a premise or a particularly interesting situation for my detective to encounter. Then I’ll sketch out a general plot and shade in the details as they work themselves out in my mind.” Noticing that Peter had shaken his head slightly, she continued. “Though I can see that you weren’t referring to my writing process. What did you mean?”

Peter squinted against the bright sunlight. “I think I meant something more along the lines of how do you write stories that indicate such faith in the idea that morality and goodness will always triumph?”

There was no bitterness in his voice – only genuine curiosity and, Harriet was a little alarmed to hear, perhaps a trace of anguish.

“That’s quite easy,” she said and Peter’s eyes widened in surprise. “I don’t think that morality or even goodness always triumphs. You just have to look at the world to see that. But, you see, that’s one of the reasons why I write, Peter: I can create a world in which things that I long for happen. On particularly gloomy days, when I feel as though the world is unbearably cruel and unjust, I can spend hours carefully righting all of those wrongs in my own world. It is, perhaps, the cheapest form of therapy I’ve ever encountered.”

Peter looked taken aback. “I must confess,” he said after a moment, “I did not expect that answer.”

“What did you think I’d say?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Peter admitted rather ruefully. “I was half hoping you’d tell me about a rosy view of the world and I could ask you to lend me your glasses. Instead, that was probably the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. I should have expected no less.”

Peter lay down on the picnic blanket, closed his eyes, and used a hand to block his face from the sun. Harriet was unusually touched by his words and instinctively reached out to stroke the top his hand still on the blanket. Peter’s eyes remained closed, but he smiled at her touch.

“Is anything particularly immoral bothering you?” she asked him softly.

“Just the end of the newspaper case. I think I’ve done the best that I could have for the man, but I’m afraid that it wasn’t enough.”

Harriet nodded sympathetically. “The real world is rarely so kind. But Peter, you are not guilty of the things that happen outside of your control – only of the good that you do not do. And I’m sure that you did as much good for him as you possibly could.”

Peter’s smile grew slightly wider, though the corners still seemed weighted down. “It is not every day that someone comforts me by paraphrasing Voltaire.”

Harriet laughed. “And it’s not every day that my own plagiarism is called out in front of my face.”

“We make quite a team.”

“Indeed, we do.”

“The very thinnest of beaten gold,” Peter murmured, his eyes closed again against the sunlight.

Harriet did not respond, perhaps because she was familiar with the reference to Donne, but kept her hand resting upon Peter’s nonetheless.

Peter smiled fondly, thinking back on that happy afternoon – a bright spot in an otherwise grey week. Perhaps inspired by the thought of trying to do as much good as he possible could, the previous evening Peter had finally texted Sherlock to ask if he was still working on the Magnussen blackmailing case. The terse (or was Peter just imagining that?) and very brief response of “Yes” had arrived several hours later without a request for his further participation. His conscience thus absolved, he decided to wait several more days (for possible developments to arise) before asking around amongst various old friends about potential support for a proper investigation into Magnussen. 

This investigation business – the serious investigations, really, rather than the casual, day-to-day things – was really not for the faint of heart. How did Sherlock do it? Perhaps more to the point, Peter wondered, how had _John_ done it? For someone who so obviously cared about other people, how had he managed in Sherlock’s grey world where victims were also perpetrators?

He should really make an effort to see John when he got back from his honeymoon, Peter decided. Maybe do a lunch somewhere and meet his wife, Mary. He had only a faint memory of John's blog (he should really read through that again before inviting him for that lunch). He could remember John occasionally commenting on the dullness of every day investigative work (so much time spent on a stakeout, so little time spent actually apprehending someone), but he couldn't remember John ever posting anything wondering about the morality of what he was experiencing. Impossible for every case that Sherlock and John ever did to have been so starkly black and white, clearly delineated between who was 'good' and who was 'bad'. Surely John must have wondered. Perhaps it would be better to consider the blog as an editorial on what it meant to work with Sherlock rather than a strictly true account – though wasn’t everything? Even choosing which facts to report was inherently editorial in nature. With a trace of amusement, Peter wondered if Sherlock had ever considered that it was impossible to ever truly get to the pure, cold facts that he desired – everything ever recorded, witnessed, or observed was influenced and edited by the observer’s inherent biases.

Perhaps the editorials page would be a better read than the news – at least there was no pretension there about presenting opinions as facts; everything _was_ an opinion. As he flipped to the back of his paper, a trace of worry flickered across Peter’s brain at the thought of Sherlock doing all of his investigations without John. He’d seemed himself when he’d stopped by the other morning (unlike the frighteningly depressed and angry show that he’d put on at Baker St.) but surely he was still acutely missing John’s presence in his life? Peter could only imagine that it would be like suddenly not having Bunter around, even if they didn’t spend every waking moment in the other’s pocket.

Actually, that struck him: where was Bunter, anyhow? 

Peter shook his newspaper closed - and felt the brief satisfaction of crinkling and creasing paper rather than just silently closing a browser window - and went in search of Bunter. The search was neither long nor arduous - Bunter was sitting at the kitchen table, staring intently at his laptop. 

Peter paused in the kitchen door and asked, "Are you avoiding me or something? What's wrong with working in the living room?"

Peter's voice had startled Bunter briefly, but he recovered quickly. "Nothing of the sort. Better light in here; that's all."

"Fair enough. What is it that you need all of this glorious light for?"

"Grading the final projects." Bunter turned his laptop so that Peter could see the screen: a rather mournful looking girl with an excess of eyeliner looked back at him. 

"Not too shabby."

"The contrast could have been better," Bunter said absently, as he turned the screen back. "But they have certainly improved over the last few weeks."

"That's good," Peter said, sitting down across the wooden table from Bunter. "Is this something you're planning to do again?"

Bunter's focus turned from his computer to Peter. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I don't know. It was just a question that popped into my head."

"I hadn't thought about it."

"Lies. You think about everything. I still harbor suspicions that you've somehow planned everything that's ever happened in my life, right down to the skinned knee I suffered on my seventh birthday when I tripped trying to chase my new pet rabbit."

Bunter snorted. "You seem to have endowed me with an undeserved power of omniscience." 

"Fully deserved. But, seriously Bunter, answer the question."

"Answer mine."

Peter rested his chin on his palm, thinking.

“These last few weeks have been so strange, what with us living completely separate lives. I constantly found myself wanting to turn and ask you a question or to consult you on your opinion of whatever had happened – you know, the way that it was before Afghanistan. Doing a sustained investigation with you only as an external sounding board was quite wrong and I don’t think that I should have agreed to keep you on the outside.”

“But,” Peter added. “Since making that suggestion was the first mistake you’ve ever made in your entire life, I’ll forgive you and let it pass.”

“Thank you,” Bunter said gravely.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Peter exclaimed. “That was a joke!”

“I know,” Bunter admitted untruthfully.

“And now you get to answer my question.”

Bunter frowned at his computer screen, apparently wrestling with what he should say. “Hope has just bought a new studio,” he said finally, looking back up at Peter.

“That’s lovely for her, but not an answer to my question at all.”

“She’s decided to sell her old studio,” Bunter continued, unperturbed. “It’s a lovely old building with studio space on the ground floor and a flat upstairs – did you know that she lived over her studio?”

“I did not.”

“She also said that if I was interested, she would be willing to offer me a discount on the price.”

Peter bit his lip and sat back slightly in his chair. “Are you thinking of moving out and starting your own photography studio? Is that was this story is about to conclude with? And – hang on – has Mycroft suddenly increased your salary and not mine? The bastard.”

“If you’d let me finish,” Bunter sighed.

“Alright,” Peter agreed, still worried. “My apologies.”

“What I was going to suggest was-“ Bunter hesitated briefly as though steeling himself for something quite risky “-that we make it a joint venture and become business partners. Start with this one, accumulate some revenue from tenants, and then purchase several more investment properties.”

Peter blinked several times in utter shock before laughing in nervous relief. “Bunter,” he said between spurts of mirth. “You have the most remarkable way of delivering brilliant ideas in such a way that I nearly keel over from fear before you finish.”

Bunter chuckled - reluctantly at first, but then wholeheartedly.

Peter wiped his eyes delicately with the side of his hand and shook his head rather fondly. “Dark red love-knots,” he murmured. “It’s brilliant. Bunter: let’s do it. Let us stave off the boredom of retirement and embark on our next madcap adventure.”

“I was rather hoping you’d say that,” Bunter said, reaching down to the chair next to him. “I’ve worked out the calculations and have had the paperwork already drawn up.”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up at the sheaf of paper in a red folder that Bunter had just placed gently on the table between them.

“Quite sure of yourself, weren’t you?” he said with a small huff of laughter, uncapping the pen that Bunter had laid out next to the paperwork. He began to work his way through the portions of the document that needed reading, occasionally initialing where it was required. Bunter returned to marking the final exams, but only with half an eye and kept most of his concentration on watching Peter over the top of his screen.

“You know what’s quite fun,” Peter said as he reached the very end of the stack of papers. “Is that, by signing these, we make our partnership both official and named. And all of this after I complained about how wrong it was not to be proper partners. I swear that you read minds in addition to whatever other tricks you have up your apparently sizable sleeves.” He paused and looked back down at the page. “Wimsey and Bunter, Ltd. has quite a nice ring to it,” he said musingly. “What a fun new game to play.”

Bunter grinned. “I couldn’t agree more.”

While Peter returned his attention to the paperwork before him, Bunter quietly slipped his mobile from his pocket and texted Mycroft:

_Partnership dissolution fears preemptive and now unsubstantiated. The game is back on._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so very much for reading along.


End file.
